


Of Night Owls And Swansongs

by rufeepeach



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:38:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> "You think I'm the Saviour, Henry? Well he was. Your father was a real hero." </i>
</p><p>What if Emma hadn't been lying when she told Henry that she'd met his father while working in an all-night diner, when Neal was training to be a fireman?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Emma had only been in Portland a few days when she decided it was time to move on.

She’d hoped – stupidly, she supposed – that she could find an old, un-micro-chipped car to steal, and take off. Like in an old movie, she supposed, hitting the road and never looking back.

They’d read Jack Keroac in high school; some of it must have filtered through.

But every car she saw was too new to be inconspicuous, or parked right under a security camera, or right by a police station. And Emma really, really didn’t feel like getting locked up. The last foster home had been bad enough.

Bars on the fucking windows: Emma wasn’t going back there again.

She only had a hundred dollars, and most of that stolen on her last night in the home. She’d spent fifty already on the cheapest food she could find, and knew – even after only a few days – that she’d get to the ‘wasting away’ end of skinny pretty soon.

She needed a job, and a change of scenery, and somewhere to sleep. And she was all on her own.

At least that was one upside, she thought, as she stared up at the Greyhound bus listings: at least she was on her own. 

There were buses heading everywhere, from LA to Phoenix to Baltimore, but Emma, only seventeen and stuck in some strange little dream, chose New York. She was sick of the West, she decided, as she bought her ticket, and something was pulling her east.

It wasn’t as if she had anywhere she had to be, or any goal in mind. A job, a bed, and someplace to stay a while were really all she could ask for. And New York – upstate, maybe, not the city – Emma was kind of done with cities for now – seemed as good a place as any.

That was how, a week and a half after leaving foster care, Emma washed up in an all-night diner three miles out of Albany, at two in the morning. The bus drove off toward the city without her, and she blearily watched its lights fade in the distance as she shivered on the roadside.

It was as dark here as it had been anywhere else, and freezing as well. The diner was her best bet – it was why she’d gotten off the bus, as a matter of fact; she couldn’t stand another hour of rocking and jolting down windy roads, and she was where she’d planned to be – and she had enough change for a coffee. If she got lucky, maybe they’d not even mind her napping for a while.

She half stumbled inside, and nearly died then and there from the bliss of the sudden warmth on her cold skin, and threw herself into one of the peeling red vinyl booths. She kicked her duffle bag, everything she owned in the world, under the table by her feet, and tried to stay awake. She would at least drink something, maybe even eat, before she collapsed: this she swore to herself.

That was when, in a desperate attempt to focus on anything but the mind numbing exhaustion creeping her eyelids closed, she saw the sign on the counter.

_Help wanted, ask Irene._

A young woman no older than Emma herself took her coffee order, and Emma –used, these days, to not drawing any attention to herself – felt a surge of longing. She wanted a job, a place, a home, and she was exhausted and this place was so warm and cheerful. It was all red and white checkers, as if someone hadn’t known if they wanted a fifties throwback or a country kitchen, and had settled for a mishmash of both, and Emma somehow never wanted to leave.

“Hey, you know who Irene is?”

The waitress looked at her, boredom on every inch of her heavily made-up face. “She owns the place,” she said, in a broad Queens accent, “she usually stays in back, I’ll get her for you.” She bustled away behind the counter, her tiny denim shorts swaying with every step, and Emma watched the truckers in the next booth, the only other patrons, gawp. She could understand why: the waitress looked like a fifties pin-up model, all pale skin and red lips and elaborately curled hair. It was a little much for an all-night diner waitress, but she fit right in somehow.

“Irene!” the waitress screamed, “Table eight wants you!”

“Alright, alright,” a little black woman, with iron-grey hair pulled back from a careworn face, and an apron over her jeans and blouse, appeared around the corner behind the counter. “I’m coming, no need to scream.”

Irene came around the counter, and found Emma within moments. Emma suddenly wanted to hide under the table, and be invisible again – this had been a bad idea, since when was it a good plan to invite rejection? She’d just be told the position had been filled, or she was under qualified, or that she needed a place to stay first. She’d be given her coffee, and then cast back out into the world. And that thought made her want to sob.

Emma Swan very rarely cried, but she was exhausted – she’d been tired and cold and lonely for far, far too long now – and it was warm in here, and she felt as if she would fall to Irene’s feet and beg for a job if she had to. 

“You asking about the waitress job?” she asked. Her voice betrayed a slight Southern lilt, and it was deep and low, naturally warm. 

“Yeah,” Emma fiddled her fingers, tried to keep eye contact and failed a few times. “I um… I’d like to work. I need the job.”

Irene cast a critical glance over her, and Emma felt like her piercing dark eyes saw every smudge of dirt, every bruise and scar, every little sign of a life spent running, even when she was forced to stand still. And who in their right mind would want someone like that?

“I’ll bet,” Irene said, heavily. “You got a resume?”

“Um, no,” Emma shook her head, and felt herself deflate. “No, I don’t.”

“Hmm,” Irene hummed, “You got an address, or a friend or someone to give a reference?”

Of course not: Emma Swan had never really had a home, and certainly no friends. Foster kids stood out, after all, and they didn’t usually stand together. She shook her head.

“Well goddamn honey,” Irene shook her head, “what’re you doing in my diner in the middle of the night? Do you have no place else to go?”

Emma was certain she was about to cry, but she swallowed hard, held it back, and shook her head. Her lips were pursed against the flood: one word and she’d break.

Irene sighed, “Alright, you a thief? Cause if you steal from me you will see the sheriff’s office, I promise you that.”

“No, ma’am,” Emma managed. It was an effort. 

“What’s your name, honey?” she asked, a little softer, as if she could tell that she needed to go gently here. Somehow, that just made it worse.

“Emma.”

“You got a surname, Emma?”

“Swan, Emma Swan,” Emma pulled herself up, used her own name as backbone. Didn’t those old stories always say names had power? That was hers, and no one else’s, and she wanted to stay here. She had to stay here. She couldn’t run anymore. So she said, as quickly as she could, “I don’t have a criminal record, I was born in Maine, you can check all my details, I promise I’m not going to steal from you or hurt anyone or anything I just…” she took a deep, shuddering breath, trying so very hard not to let a tear fall.

“You need a place to go,” Irene said, softly. “You poor child.”

Emma nodded, miserably.

“Well, you got any ID?”

That, Emma did have: she fumbled in her jacket and retrieved her wallet, and handed over her hard-won driving license.

“Just seventeen,” Irene murmured, and then nodded to herself, as if she’d decided. Emma held her breath. “I’m a fool,” she muttered, then said, louder, “Alright, Emma Swan, you got yourself a job. You can sleep in the motel room we keep for staff working overnight, and I’ll take the rent out of your paycheck till you find somewhere else.”

Emma didn’t know how she managed to smile when she felt so ready to sob her heart out, but she did. “Thank you.”

\---

Emma learned fast that good fortune came at a price. 

While Irene was kind, if stern, and the other waitresses were all friendly enough, diner work was far more difficult than Emma had anticipated. The hours were long, busy times stressful, and more than once she thought about simply skipping out in the middle of the night, and trying her luck elsewhere.

But, she knew, her chances for anything better were slim to nil. As Irene had made clear to her, she had little to recommend her as a worker: she had no resume, no experience, not even a high school diploma to her name. Irene had taken her in out of kindness, and kindness, as Emma knew all too well, was a rarity in this world.

After two weeks of work, she’d gotten close to the girl who’d worked the night she was hired. Her name was Christine, and she, like Emma, worked the times no one else wanted: the graveyard shift, 5pm-5am, Tuesday-Sunday, with Mondays off to sleep and recharge.

It wasn’t the best life ever, but it was so much better than sharing a tiny room with three other foster kids, or living in the back of a car.

She worked the counter alone on Wednesday nights, when Irene did the accounts and Christine was left to cover the kitchen. She found herself in a rhythm surprisingly quickly, scrubbing the counters before sweeping and mopping the floors, before checking all the tables and refilling the dispensers, by which point someone would have spilt something and she could begin again.

The diner never seemed completely empty, but it didn’t exactly bustle at night either. There were a few truckers dozing over a last cup of coffee, a student or two from the local colleges sobering up or trying to cram, and the occasional man or woman who sat alone and miserable, and wasn’t to be disturbed.

“Hey, miss?” a group of guys, in the early twenties and not bad looking, if Emma was any judge, had come in and sat in a booth by the window. The same booth, she thought absently, that she’d sat in that first evening, alone and destitute and desperate for a place to stay.

“Yeah?” she looked up with her customer-friendly smile, and her eyes caught those of the one guy of the three looking in her direction. He smiled at her, a very nice smile really.

“Can we get some coffee over here please?” he asked, more politely than most of the young men who came through here often did. Christine had already shared a fair few war stories about guys who were either grumpy bastards, grunting demands and grumbling at anyone who came near, or who were definitely too friendly, and needed Irene and her rolling pin (and threat of a shotgun in the back) to sort them out.

“Sure,” Emma came around the counter, coffee jug in hand, and filled the three cups out on the table. The man who’d spoken was still watching her, and it was unnerving, for all that his scrutiny didn’t feel invasive or creepy. His eyes were on her face. That was what was freaking her out.

“Thank you,” he said, a little softer, and oh fuck no she wasn’t blushing!

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a little nervously, and stepped back. “So, what’ll it be?” she asked, getting out her pad and pen and almost hiding behind it. Emma liked to think she was brave, strong, unshakeable, but it was so much easier to be that when someone was glaring or acting like a creep. Gentle, kindly appreciation – from an admittedly kind of hot guy – was something else entirely.

“I’m starved!” one of the other guys, taller than his friend and darker with absurdly broad shoulders, declared.

“You’re always starving,” the last of the three, redheaded and bearded, laughed.

“Leave him alone Dennis,” the first man, the handsome smiley one, admonished, but his smile was sly now, “Saving kittens is hungry work.”

Dennis sniffed, “You’d have let the poor thing die, huh Neal? You’re just jealous, all the ladies want a man with a sensitive side.”

The handsome one – Neal, apparently – shrugged, “Didn’t say that. I just meant you’re clearly proud of your achievement. We should get you a mask and a cape.”

“Shut up,” Dennis grumbled, and his redheaded friend started to laugh.

“I’m sorry, miss,” Neal apologized, looking at Emma again, “It’s been a long night, and we shouldn’t waste your time.”

“It’s fine,” Emma said, truthfully, “it’s not like I have many other tables to serve.” She looked about the room pointedly. The truckers in the corner were more than half asleep, and Emma didn’t think disturbing the harried woman sat at the counter chain-smoking was a good idea. There was a certain type, Christine had taught her, who’d get either over-talkative or abusive if you tried to talk to them. That woman was a prime example.

“Ask her,” the redhaired man suggested to Neal, “Get a girl’s opinion.”

Neal sighed, and ran a hand over his face, “Fred, I don’t think she’s interested.”

“Sure she is!” Fred declared, “Alright, I’ll ask. Miss, if a man saved a kitten from a burning building, would that make him more attractive, in your opinion?”

Emma thought for a moment, trying to resist the urge to smile: this job got so much better when customers decided to treat her like a human being. And Neal was still smiling at her. Emma was sworn off men – and most other human beings, if she was honest – but she could appreciate a gorgeous smile when she saw one. “It would depend,” she said, after a moment, “did he set the fire?”

Neal laughed, then, a little surprised but genuine, “I don’t think the station’d be too happy,” he said, “so no, this hypothetical hero did not start the fire.”

Emma shrugged, “Then yeah, sure. Firefighters are hot.”

Dennis perked up at that, “See?” he looked at his friends, “Told you.”

Neal was still chortling, “Nice pun there,” he complimented her. Emma winked at him.

“And exactly how ‘hot’ do you find firefighters?” Fred asked, then, leaning over a bit. Emma winced inside: it’d been nice to have a conversation without being actively hit on.

But Neal reached over and swatted is friend hard on the shoulder. “Down, boy,” he admonished, “we’re here for pie, not to creep on nice waitresses.” 

“Wait…” Emma’s eyes narrowed, “you guys are firefighters, right?”

“Trainees. Hence the kitten saving,” Neal nodded, gesturing to Dennis. 

Emma laughed, “I feel like I should be thanking you for your service or something.”

“You could thank us with food?” Dennis suggested, “lots of it.”

“He’ll have the biggest plate of meat products you have,” Neal said, with a sarcastic eye-roll. “I’ll have pumpkin pie, and, Fred?”

Fred looked back up from his menu, “Pancakes, with all the syrup you can find.”

Emma wrote it all down, and then frowned, “I’m sorry, we don’t sell pumpkin pie. We have apple?”

Neal looked at her like she’d grown two heads, “What kind of diner doesn’t sell pumpkin pie?”

“This one,” Emma said, shrugging, “you want the apple?”

Neal sighed, “Sure, but it’s an outrage,” he said, but he grinned at her teasingly anyway. Emma tried not to look at him for too long, and jotted the new order down.

“Alright, it’ll be out soon guys!” They all smiled at her, but she accidentally caught Neal’s eye as she refilled his coffee mug and walked away.

Just her luck that the moment she swore off ever dating again, she’d meet a hot fireman with a gorgeous smile; especially one with a sense of humor, who’d stop his friend from ‘creeping’ on her. 

She served them quickly, when their food was ready, and left them to it. She avoided being drawn into another conversation – and avoided Christine’s lascivious remarks about Dennis’ shoulders – and went back to cleaning the counter. She’d not see them again, and that was for the best.

She felt both immensely relieved and a little disappointed when they left, and the diner was quiet and still again. She sighed, and set to clearing their table.

The napkin where Neal had been sitting was untouched, and she was about to throw it away when she saw a smudge of black on the other side. 

_Neal: 732-736-2923  
Drinks? :) _

She shook her head at the little smiley face he’d drawn, and then remembered her promise to herself. No guys who could mess her about, no heartache, no asking for trouble. Not now, not while she was still basically homeless, living paycheck-to-paycheck, seventeen and alone.

Asking for trouble barely covered it.

She folded the napkin and put it in the pocket of her skirt. She didn’t analyze why she couldn’t bring herself to throw it away.


	2. Chapter 2

“Come on,” Christine said, after the end of their Sunday shift. It was Monday morning, Emma’s fourth week at the diner; the sun was only just rising, and Emma wanted to sleep for days. “Lets go into town.”

“What?” Emma stared at her, “Chris, I’ll die on my feet.”

“No, you won’t,” Christine denied, “Trust me, now’s the time to get out and do something, before you sleep. If you go crash on that tiny cot Irene claims is a bed, you’ll wake up after everything’s closed, and be fucked for another week.” 

“What the hell would even be open in town this early?” Emma grumbled, but she followed.

Christine shrugged, “Starbucks, Dunkin’ Donuts: everything a dead-inside businessman needs to start his sell-out day.”

That was the thing about Christine: she wore her shorts up to her ass, her shirts cut off to barely cove her midriff, her lipstick cherry red and her face plastered in make up, and with her accent, and her complete lack of ambition, it was easy to assume she was stupid. Emma, however, had fast learned that nothing could have been farther from the truth.

She apparently had parents, somewhere, who’d sent her to some massively expensive college before she ran away to live what she called ‘a real life’. Emma didn’t feel like explaining to her that she’d had that ‘real life’ since the day she was born, and would have given anything for parents who cared enough to pay for college.

Hell, even parents who cared enough to drop her off in a hospital before vanishing would have been a start.

Emma was a little overawed by how determined Christine had been to befriend her: no one, especially no one with options and opinions about things, ever wanted to be around Emma for long.

Emma smiled, as if she understood everything her friend had said, and got in the passenger door of Christine’s beat-up old car. It stank of cigarette smoke and cheap body spray, but she always drove with the windows down anyway, because she claimed it made her feel like she drove a convertible.

Emma could get that, she guessed.

The ride to town was filled with Christine – full of energy, used as she was to the hours Emma struggled with – babbling about how boring Albany was, and how little there was to do there, and how much she wished (but not too hard) that she could go somewhere more exciting. Emma hummed in agreement every now and then, dozing in the front seat, hoping that wherever they ended up had a cheap cup of coffee. She was sure as hell going to need it.

They pulled into a little parking lot just off the mall, and Emma squinted up at the sun, just rising over the tops of the buildings. “Chris,” she moaned, but the look she got from the other girl silenced her.

“Emma, I swear to god I am going to cry if you don’t get out once in a while. One coffee. One doughnut. We’ll even get a bear claw, okay? You just can’t let Irene push you around like she does.”

“She doesn’t push me around,” Emma protested, as they walked toward the mall, “I owe her for giving me work.”

Christine snorted, “You know you don’t have to live there forever, right? Janet’s going to move in with Craig any day now, and the rent’s not that much. 

“You… you’d let me take her room?” Emma asked, stunned by the very idea. She’d never had a real friend before, let alone one who’d let her move in.

Christine shrugged, “Irene’s slaves gotta stick together, right? And I can’t make the rent on my own. Call it a mutual favor.”

Emma nodded, but she felt her eyes getting a little wet. “Thank you,” she said, then she rallied, sniffing hard, “but I still owe Irene for giving me a job. We both do.”

Christine “She owes us for being eye candy,” she said, “come on, between us the diner’s better than Hooters.”

“Shut up,” Emma grumbled, but she couldn’t stop a little giggle escaping.

“It’s true!” Christine said, “No, seriously, you have that sweet blonde waif thing going on-“

“I do not!”

“Do to!” Christine stuck her tongue out, the little stud glistening in the sunlight, “And I cover the naughty pin-up-girl side. Between us we’ve got this down!”

“Chris, you’re talking shit now, you know that?” Emma raised an eyebrow, but Christine just tossed her short dark hair back over one shoulder.

“Whatever you say, Emma,” she linked her arm with Emma’s, and they walked together toward the Starbucks on the ground floor.

They reached the threshold, and Emma was about to head for the line before she saw who was paying at the counter. She froze, her arm suddenly a vice around Christine’s, and gaped.

“What is it?” Christine asked, alarmed. “What happened?”

“It’s…”

“Hey, waitress girl!” Neal had turned and seen them, and holy Hell the smile on his face could have brought a puppy back to life. It was doing funny things to Emma’s heart-rate as it was.

Christine raised an eyebrow at Emma, before looking back at Neal with a coy smile. “Her name’s Emma, actually. How can she help you?”

“Emma,” Neal said it slowly, then grinned over the top of Christine’s head at Emma, “nice name, it suits you.”

“Thanks,” Emma said, not sure exactly how to respond to that.

“You wanna talk to him?” Christine asked her, “cause I can run him off if you want.”

“It’s fine, Chris,” Emma assured her, more than a little touched by her friend’s automatic protectiveness. “Go get your coffee.”

Chris nodded, but cast one last suspicious look to Neal before strutting away. “She’s… fierce,” Neal noted, and Emma laughed.

“Yeah, she’s something,” she agreed.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have disturbed you,” Neal shook his head, “Didn’t even know your name, idiot.”

“It’s fine, it’s nice to see a familiar face.”

“I’m familiar?” Neal asked, and the hope in his eyes was as wonderful as it was impossible.

“Well more than a total stranger, yes,” Emma defended, and he laughed.

“I’ll take that,” he nodded. “You didn’t call me, I should have taken that as a sign.”

“I…” Emma stopped, laughed at herself, and shook her head. “I didn’t. I’m sorry, I don’t get much time off and I’m not… really dating right now. Sorry.”

“It’s fine, totally cool,” Neal nodded, and weirdly Emma felt like he meant it, which in an odd way made her wish he’d press a bit harder, so she’d have to see him again. But he wasn’t walking away, and it seemed like a thought had just occurred to him because now he was smiling instead, a smile full of flirtation and promise that made her pulse jump and quicken, and her brain go fuzzy. “So it wasn’t me, then?”

“I’m sorry?” Emma blurted, startled by the sudden shift.

“You’re busy and not dating, but you’re not specifically not dating _me_?”

“I… no, I guess not,” Emma tried to follow his logic, and couldn’t. She surmised there likely wasn’t any to follow anyway.

“So if I were to not _date_ you, and not take up what little time off you have, I could see you again?”

“I guess so,” Emma’s face was warming, and she thought she could understand what he was suggesting, no matter how bad of an idea it would be to agree. She didn’t want to not see him again, and she had so little she enjoyed about this life she’d found, no matter how much better it was than the alternatives. Where would really be the harm, in seeing him again? He was a nice guy, sweet and charming and not a chore to look at, and he seemed to really like her. “That would satisfy the terms, yes.”

“Then it’s not a date,” he grinned, and Emma felt herself warm to her toes. He took her hand, just briefly, and squeezed once before letting go. He picked up his coffee from the table where he’d set it down, and walked on by, out of the door, as Christine appeared behind him, grinning ear-to-ear.

“Hot guy asked you out!” she squealed, and Emma laughed, bemusedly, as she was hugged.

“No he didn’t,” Emma corrected, “he was very clear about that.”

“Semantics,” Christine waved a hand, airily. “I got your coffee decaf,” she continued, ignoring Emma’s squeak of protest, “And your bear claw,” she added, “but if you’re entertaining hot men, you need sleep. Dark eye-circles are not sexy.”

Emma nodded, dumbly, and bit into the offered pastry, as she followed her friend back out into the mall.

She wasn’t sure what had just happened, but she wasn’t unhappy about it, so that was something, she guessed.

\---

Wednesday and Friday nights became their thing.

He got off work around one am, and came by the diner on his way home. He sat at the counter, and chattered to her about his work, about his friends, about everything and nothing, while she worked. She worked less when he was there, but it was the middle of the night, and no one complained.

The first night, she poured his coffee, and he bought a second cup, so she can pour some for herself, too. She stood on one side, and he sat on the other, and by the end of the night her hand was in his, and their talking had descended into just smiling at one another.

The next night, he brought her a slice of cake from the fancy bakery in Albany, which she secrets into the back, under the cot that is her bed, so Irene won’t see foreign baked goods in her diner. When she ate it, the next morning before she slept, she couldn’t help beaming the entire time: the cake was delicious, but the memory of how pleased he was when she accepted it was far better.

They carried on in this fashion: he brought her little presents, usually food or something else small, something that could easily be just a token of friendship but that quite clearly isn’t, and they sat and talked for an hour or two. He always ordered a slice of apple pie, and lamented their lack of pumpkin, and she’d tell him how he’d have to come back next time: it became a kind of code, a way of admitting that they both wanted to meet again.

He didn’t discuss his past before Albany, and neither did Emma, but there was plenty else they had in common. When in doubt, Emma found herself more than happy to just stare at him for a while, and he seemed to return the sentiment.

There was such genuine affection in his eyes when he did that that she didn’t even mind when his eyes drifted to her chest, or her ass when she bent to pick something up. She narrowed her eyes when she caught him doing it, but he never apologized, just winked at her cheekily, and she had to laugh. It made her happy, she realized, that he clearly found her attractive as well as liking her for herself. It made her happy that she could make him happy, a prospect so alien that it made her stop dead when she realized it.

Emma started taking more care over her make up, borrowing bits and pieces from Christine and choosing her few nice pieces of wardrobe for those nights. It became easier once Christine’s roommate finally moved out with her boyfriend, and Emma moved in. They’d been talking about it for a while – and Irene certainly wanted her motel room back – but the day she actually moved her meagre possessions into her new room she cried with happiness.

She had a room of her own now, a bed, a place to go home to at night, and Christine was a good roommate for all that the parade of hot young men through their kitchen in the mornings could get a little wearing. Emma actually felt, for the first time, as if her life was coming together – she had friends, a job, a little money in the bank and a steady, legal place to live – and it was _wonderful_. 

Christine let Emma borrow anything that’d fit her, with a little persuasion: she seemed to genuinely want to help her friend to impress the guy she was definitely _not_ dating. 

Emma and Neal never do more than hold hands, innocently, but it’s a slim fact to cling to, and Emma knows it.

The extra effort was worth it for the little smile of appreciation she got when he noticed, and complimented her necklace or her new shirt. 

On their fifth Wednesday, Neal brought her a key ring with a swan on it that he’d bought her from a drug store down the street. She beamed as she took it, before pointing out that she didn’t have a car, or keys of any kind, aside from her house key. He frowned, and rummage in his pockets, finally pulling out a long piece of black string.

Before her eyes, he fashioned her a necklace; she shivered with the pleasure of his fingers brushing her skin, as he tied it behind her neck.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” she asked, with a little giggle. Neal shrugged, as she turned back to look at him.

“Learned to do all sorts of things as a kid,” he shrugged, but she could see how guarded he’d become. “You ever need a bowl made out of a coconut, I’m your man.”

Emma nodded, grinning to lighten the mood, “I think plastic works best thanks,” she said, and he nodded, that smile she liked so much coming back. “Which reminds me…” she nipped into the back, and brought out the sundae Christine offered to make for them on the sly. “We could split it?” she suggested, shyly, brandishing two spoons. The diner was empty, and Irene was asleep. The coast was clear.

Neal grinned, and snatched a spoon, “Try and stop me.” He dug in with gusto, and Emma cried out in mock-dismay as he scooped up a large dollop of chocolate fudge sauce, her favourite part.

“Hey, give me a chance!” she scolded. He stuck his tongue out at her, and she burst into giggles, tucking into her own side with a helpless shake of her head.

They fed each other mouthfuls here and there, and laughed when cream landed on noses and cheeks. They looked like the VHS cover of a nineties rom-com, but Emma didn’t care.

That she didn’t care spoke volumes, she knew, but she chose not to look at that any closer.

\---

Their pattern broke when he showed up on a Monday morning, right as she was getting ready to leave. Janet was scheduled to start at 5am, and she called through to the back, “Hey, Emma, guy wants to see you!”

Emma pushed her apron into her backpack and let her hair down, and called back, “I’ll be right there!”

She felt the terror coil in her stomach as she finished changing with shaking hands. She had no idea who it could be – one of the psycho guys from her last foster home perhaps, or the police asking about the bits and pieces she’d stolen to get her here – but none of her options were good.

She considered bolting out the back door, but they’d likely have someone waiting outside to catch her, and anyway that was the old Emma. The new Emma was responsible, controlled, and mature. She didn’t run from trouble; she faced it head-on.

She stepped out, white-faced, ready to face whatever terror had tracked her down.

Instead she found Neal stood there, hands in his pockets, apprehension all over his handsome face. 

“Hey,” she breathed, relief and happiness and something that was far too premature and stupid to be love but that hit far too close to it all expressed in that one word. “What’re you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” he said, stepping forward, bringing his hands to her forearms. “You okay? You looked terrified when you came out, did something happen?”

She laughed, because it all seemed so stupid now, worrying. How could anyone worry with Neal nearby? “No, nothing happened. I’m good. Just… twelve hour shift, tired.”

He nodded, understanding, but she could see in his eyes that he wasn’t likely to let it go anyway. “Alright.”

“So, what’re you doing here?” she asked again, “It’s not Wednesday.”

“I um… I wanted to ask you something,” he said, looking nervous but not unhappy, which set her mind at ease somewhat. “Would you mind… breaking our rules for once?”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean… I mean I want to take you on a date. A real one. And I want to use up as much of your free time as you’ll let me.”

“Oh?” she couldn’t stop smiling, however much she should say no, however far from sensible and harmless this had clearly gone. 

He smiles too, apparently encouraged by her response, “Yeah, there’s a really great spot not too far from here, I thought we could go have a picnic.”

“Now?” Emma laughed, “Neal I’m exhausted, I just got off work.”

“My ‘not too far’ might be a bit far from yours,” Neal admitted, “trust me, you’ll have time to sleep in the car, and coffee when you get there. Please? You look like someone who needs some nature.”

“I’m a city girl,” Emma confessed, “I’ve never even been to the mountains.”

“All the more reason,” Neal grinned, “I grew up by a forest: it’s the best place to go when you need some peace and quiet. And you, Emma, are more in need of a forest than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

She laughed, tired but unable to say no to him, and a trip to the woods did seem like a wonderful idea. “Alright then,” she agreed, without even thinking about it: how could she turn him down, when he looked so hopeful, so happy, and wanted her so much? “Lets go.”

He grinned at her, and before she could think he’d pressed his lips to hers just once, just one kiss, brief and thankful and gone in a moment. “Thank you,” he looked stunned by what he’d done, and she returned the sentiment, but he reaction, when it came, was a shy smile.

To hell with sensible, she thought giddily, as he took her hand and lead her out to his car: sensible had never met Neal Cassidy.


	3. Chapter 3

She was dead to the world before she knew it, asleep with her head against the window, a thoughtful blanket thrown over her before Neal had even pulled out of the parking lot.

She awoke several hours later leaning gently against something warm and not soft, but certainly less hard than the window had been. Something comfortably heavy was wrapped around her shoulders, holding her in place, and as she blinked her eyes open she realized it was Neal’s arm, holding her close as he drove with one hand on the wheel, through a windy forest road.

“Where are we?” she asked, with a little unwanted stab of panic – she’d let a man she barely knew take her somewhere she’d never been before, and slept through the journey! 

No, she admonished herself, she’d let Neal, her friend, take her off on a picnic. She was safe here, and if she wasn’t then she wasn’t safe anywhere.

“Cranberry Lake,” Neal told her, “it’s a state park, about three hours out of Albany. It’s the most remote place I know of.”

“What, are you going to murder me?” Emma joked, looking up at him, but there was a little note of apprehension in her voice, “Brought me where no one will hear me scream?”

Neal laughed, and rubbed her arm with the hand wrapped around her, “I couldn’t eat all the food I crammed in the back by myself,” he told her, “so if I do murder you it’ll be on a full stomach.”

Emma laughed, the tension that had built in her chest dispelled by his easy manner. Everything was fine, she’d even heard of Cranberry Lake from some hikers who’d come through a few weeks back, and she could see a map in the front glove compartment. She even had cellphone service, when she checked. She was perfectly safe, and Neal was here, and this was going to be wonderful.

They drove up to an uninhabited campsite on the side of the lake after another twenty minutes or so, and Neal unpacked the staggering amount of food he’d brought with him. “I figured it’d be breakfast time when we got here,” he explained, “and we’d leave after an early dinner?”

Emma’s stomach growled loudly, and she realized she’d not had much to eat since her break at 2am. Neal looked up, and snickered, “Good thing I thought ahead, huh?”

“Definitely,” she nodded, taking a seat at the picnic table by the water, and watching him rummage in the bags for breakfast. She felt a sudden rush of fondness and affection for him, watching him fumble and curse as things fell and tangled together. It was so sweet, so domestic, that it broke her heart.

He finally stood, smiling triumphantly, and brought a container full of fruit and two of Irene’s takeout boxes full of French toast. “We can get out the travel stove if you want,” he said, “but it’s alright cold, too, and you sound starving.”

“Just give me the food,” Emma grinned and snatched her box from his hands, along with the disposable fork. She tried to look delicate as she dug in, but it was no good: she felt like she would pass out if she didn’t eat soon.

He laughed at her enthusiasm, not cruelly but fondly, and tucked into his own. They ate in silence for a while, and Emma smiled, because silence was good. He was right: she hadn’t been out of the city for far too long: if she wasn’t sleeping or working or lying about the apartment, she was in Albany. It was lovely to not hear a car go past, or anyone yelling, or the hiss of the fryer that never seemed to fall silent.

She didn’t resent the way her life had turned out, but a break was more than welcome. She could hear actual birds singing, and the lapping of the waves on the shore, and the wind in the trees. 

She was always far too aware that she’d been left in the woods as a child, abandoned by the highway; she’d kept away from remote areas since, despite obviously having no memories of it. But this was different: this was her and Neal, and little Emma who’d cried so hard for her parents was for once silent in the back of her mind. With him she was a friend, a sweet young woman, a confident waitress, a girl with her life coming together; with him she wasn’t a hopeless, helpless orphan, a meal ticket or a burden on the system

When they were both finished, he put the polystyrene boxes in a trash bag and cleared the rest away. He dug a large blanket from the back of the car, and spread it out on the grass just back from the lake under a tree. “You still look tired,” he explained, “you wanna lie down for a while?”

Touched by his concern, she nodded, and he sat beside her, his back against the tree, his eyes on the water. She didn’t know when her head migrated from his shoulder to his lap, but she fell asleep watching the water ripple before them, with Neal’s fingers stroking her hair, and his other hand warm on her waist, not holding her down but keeping her safe, reminding her that he was there.

He didn’t know who she was, what she’d been through, how she’d been hurt, but still he’d do this for her and ask for no more than one kiss – and that undemanding and over in a moment – as recompense. Emma Swan wasn’t sure she even knew how to love, but she thought in that moment, before she drifted off to sleep, she could learn for him.

He woke her gently at noon, with the sun high in the sky, and without thinking she wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and brought him down, as she leaned up, for a kiss. This one was much longer, and warmer, and deeper than the last. This was what their first kiss should have been, but couldn’t have been, because until now Emma wouldn’t have accepted it. But now, now she could she start it, and have no fear of rejection, of getting her heart broken in moments, of the world crashing down around them.

He kissed her back, a little sigh caught in the back of his throat, and his hands helped her to sit up properly, their mouths still joined, so she was sat in his lap, and he could wind a hand into her hair and kiss her properly. He kissed her like he’d been waiting years to do so: hot and desperate but still soft, still slow, and she clung to him, unable to stop. 

They finally surface for air, and he leaned his forehead against hers, “Where’d that come from?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, “I just… wanted to.”

“You want to again?” he asked, curiously.

She grinned, and kissed him again, sucking his bottom lip into her mouth and biting softly as she let it go. He let out a stifled little groan, and she snickered, “What do you think?”

“I think we don’t talk anymore,” he said, decisively, and claimed her mouth again.

It was another hour to so before either of them could bring themselves to stop. Even then, when Neal got out the sandwiches and salad he’d brought for lunch, Emma couldn’t stop herself from stealing kisses all the while. It was hard to eat when she suddenly could keep her hands off him, but she didn’t much care: it felt good, so good, to want someone so much and to have them want her back.

They dragged the blanket down to the shore, so they could sit cross-legged while they ate the cake Neal had brought for dessert. She giggled when he tried to feed her, accusing him of cliché even while she sucked the fork lean, and watched him swallow, hard. The implication was obvious, but while yesterday it would have scared her, today it was interesting, even exciting.

They ended up sprawled together on the blanket most of the afternoon, talking and kissing and tangled up together, any wall they’d had between them broken down. Emma had never felt so open, so free, so truly happy. It was a dizzying feeling, knowing she was living the best day of her life.

“So how come you’ve never come to the mountains before?” Neal asked, when her head rested on his shoulder, their ankles twined together at the foot of the blanket. He was toying with her hair, and she found she liked that a lot.

She shrugged, “Foster care system doesn’t exactly pay for vacations.”

“I’m sorry,” he shook his head, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Emma buried her face in his neck, kissed his throat, “I’m alright. I just… no one’s ever done anything like this for me before. Thank you.”

“Really, I just wanted to spend some real time with you,” he confided, and she giggled.

“What, get me alone to have your wicked way?” she teased, no longer frightened by the prospect. She liked that he wanted her; that he must have thought about that. The feeling was definitely mutual, after all.

He laughed too, grinning, his head lolled back to give her better access to his neck and throat, “Well, that,” he admitted, “although I think you covered that on your own.” She laughed again, and nipped at his skin, making him groan her name. He sighed, “But no, it’s just… I like you a lot, Emma. I wanted a chance to get you alone long enough that we’re not worried about time limits. To talk.”

“To talk,” she snorted, “right. We’re doing so great at that.”

“We’re talking!” he protested, “Look, look at us talking!”

“Hmm,” she nodded, amused, “sure.” She leaned down, and kissed him again, brushing her tongue teasingly against his but not quite delving in, keeping it light and promising without delivering anything more. He groaned, his hand tighter in her hair, but didn’t pull her back down when she pulled away. “I can stop you talking, Neal,” she said, and he nodded.

“I’m well aware,” he returned, “but I mean it anyway. I like talking to you. You’re like no one else I’ve ever met,” he looked down at her throat, where the pendant he’d made for her rested. He ran his fingers over it, lightly, and she shivered. “You’re amazing, Emma.”

She felt herself blush to the tips of her toes, warm and shivering. She had to kiss him again, then, and after that they didn’t talk much at all for a while. 

“What about you?” Emma asked, some time later, when they were spooned up, her back to his front, his arm around her waist, “You said you grew up by a forest?”

“Yeah,” Neal said, his voice heavy, and Emma wondered if she should have left it alone. “My mom and dad lived in a little village. My dad raised me there until I was fourteen.”

“What happened to your mom?” Emma asked, hugging his arm close comfortingly. He was right, they ought to talk, and she wanted to know, but she also wanted him to know that whatever the truth was, he had her.

“She ran off,” Neal said, shortly, “met someone new. My dad thought it’d hurt less if he told me she died, so he did. He meant well but…”

“God, that’s awful,” Emma murmured, pressing a kiss to his hand where it was linked with hers, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s how it is,” Neal said, as if it didn’t matter, but she knew him too well – and when did that happen? – and wasn’t fooled. “I met her boyfriend a while later, after she actually had died. I’m just as glad he wasn’t a part of my life growing up.” He snorted, a huff of breath against her neck, and held her a little closer, “He’d vowed revenge on my dad for my mom’s death. That was a fun conversation.” 

Emma trembled, somehow close to tears: she’d somehow managed to find the one guy who could have a worse past than hers, and she wished he hadn’t. Of anyone in the world, Neal deserved to have had a nice life, a happy life, and all he’d received was pain.

“Where’s your dad now?” Emma asked, and Neal shrugged.

“I don’t want to know,” he said, “hopefully a long, long way away. I… you could say I ran away, when I was fourteen. Joined what you might call a gang.”

“God, your life sounds like shit,” Emma murmured, sympathetically. “I’m so sorry, Neal.”

“Don’t be,” he said, and he sounded sincere, “we’ve both survived the worst that could have happened, right? We’re here,” he pressed a kiss to the base of her neck, “together. The past is passed.”

“Yeah,” she breathed, and for the first time she really believed it, that two lost children could find each other and be happy. That they could love each other. “The past is passed.”

“So there’s my sob story,” he said, after a long moment, his voice back to its usual warmth, “What about you? Do you know where your folks are?”

“I don’t even know who they are,” Emma sighed, “or where. No one does.”

“What happened?”

“They left me by the side of a road,” she said, trying to sound matter-of-fact as he had, and failing, she was trembling, shaking, her voice already unsteady because she’d never told this story before to anyone she could show weakness to. “They didn’t even find me a hospital. They just… left me to die,” she finished, and she broke.

Emma Swan hadn’t cried since she left the foster system, over six months ago, but now, lying by the lake with a man she was falling in love with, safe in the warm September sun, she couldn’t hold it in anymore. She sobbed, and Neal made a soft little noise and turned her in his arms, so she could curl against his chest and cry her heart out. His hands stroked her back, her hair, anything he could reach, and held her close all the while, until her sobs had become little sniffles and whimpers, and he could tilt her face to look at him.

He kissed her tear-tracks, and the tip of her wet, red nose, and that was it. She was in love with him, and she always would be, and she didn’t regret a thing.

\---

He dropped her off outside Christine’s apartment that night, and walked her to her door at Emma’s insistence. She felt a little nervous about what she was about to do, but when she stopped at the door she took a deep breath, and said, “Christine’s out tonight.”

Neal watched her carefully, “Is she?”

“Yes,” Emma said, firmly, “so if you didn’t feel like driving all the way back to Albany… my bed’s a double.”

He didn’t look like he was repulsed by the idea, but neither did he jump to accept. Instead, he kept watching her, as if trying to read her mind through her eyes, “Are you sure?” he asked, but there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes, and yes, of course she was sure. She’d never been so sure of anything in her life.

“Certain,” she grinned, and leaned closer, softly kissing his worried mouth, “you’ve given me the best day of my life, Neal,” she told him, “I don’t want it to end just yet.”

He nodded, shakily, his hands coming to rest on her hips. They were kissing as she opened the door, stumbled through the kitchen and into her bedroom, and as she shut the door. It was as if they both worried that if they stopped kissing, then one of them would think of a good reason to stop, and then the wall that had so easily been demolished by the lake would come back between them.

So they didn’t say any more, not another word, not when she was almost ripping his shirt from his shoulders, running her hands over the muscles of his arms, toned from his work as a fireman and the required hours in the gym, nor when he had pulled her t-shirt off over her head, and his eyes were fixed on her breasts in their cheap white bra. He made a little noise, something like a groan, and suddenly she was on her back on her bed, with his face buried in her chest, and his hands hot and hard on her hips, holding her in place while he kissed and licked every inch of bare flesh exposed to him.

Emma had never thought of herself as particularly beautiful, but he gazed at her so adoringly, like she was the most wonderful thing he’d ever seen. She couldn’t even feel nervous, not with him looking at her like that, not when it was Neal she was with. He might never know it, she thought, but he was the only person she’d ever loved. 

She dragged him up for a breathless, open-mouthed kiss, and wrapped her legs around his hips, suddenly loathing any scrap of clothing, anything at all, that was between them.

It took them only a few minutes of awkward scrabbling and breathy giggles to remove the rest of their clothes, and when they were connected at last Emma could hardly breathe for the joy of it. She’d had sex before, once or twice, with boys she’d loathed, out of loneliness and desperation more than anything else, but this was different. For Emma, at least, this was making love, and she sighed as he pulled out and thrust back home again, the pleasure secondary to how full her heart felt when he looked down at her like that, braced over her with her hand on his cheek, and him buried deep inside her, like he’d never have to leave again. 

She came with just a brush of his fingers against her, and she trembled and sighed, his name and “I love you,” tumbling from her lips. He groaned and found his own release right then, and she wasn’t sure if he’d heard it. She didn’t know if she hoped he had, or if those words, those awful words, should have remained unspoken.

He rolled them so they were spooned again, under her covers, and she cuddled back into his arms, happier than she’d ever been in her life. As she was falling asleep, she heard him whisper, “I love you too,” into her hair.


	4. Chapter 4

Things were different, after their day and night together.

He still came by after work, but it was now more nights than not, and he always greeted her and said goodbye with a long, deep kiss. Some mornings he came to drive her home, and they ended up tumbled in her bed together, and Neal would soothe away the pains of a long night of work with his warm hands and warmer words.

They neither of them said ‘I love you’ again, but they both knew what they’d heard, knew how they felt and how it was reciprocated. It was better this way, Emma thought, with a foolish smile: it was like having a secret, a partner in crime.

Christine watched it all with an indulgent smile, as Neal started leaving their apartment early in the morning, after Emma had fallen asleep and before his shift began.

Emma always kept the radio on in the diner while she worked, now, when she knew Neal was on shift. Just in case the news came in with a fire, just in case something happened to make her worry.

Before, she’d told herself she didn’t care: he was a good friend, but she didn’t need him, not like she needed him now. She didn’t know what she’d do, if anything happened to him. She didn’t want to find out.

\---

One night, about two months into this happy new phase, a guy came in about an hour before Neal was due to stop by, and hung around in the corner. There was something shifty about him, something odd, and something vaguely familiar as well. He was dark-haired, no more than five or six years older than Emma herself and wearing biker leathers. He gave her one cryptic look as he came in, but Christine was on that night and she served him, giving Emma an excuse to not go near him.

The stranger faded into the background, until he was finishing up his pie and Neal came in. He kissed Emma over the counter, and she was beaming as they parted, but she could feel the stranger’s eyes on them, all the same. “You okay, baby?” Neal asked her, feeling the tension in her shoulders at the stranger’s scrutiny.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” she nodded, and gave him her full attention. “Much happen tonight?”

Neal grimaced, “Pile-up on the freeway,” he said, “took three of us to ply the guy out of his car. What was left of him, anyhow.”

Emma shuddered, “I don’t know how you stand it.”

Neal watched her, gravely, “I’ve seen much worse. It gets easier after you’ve been doing it a while, and it’s better than nothing, right?”

“Right,” Emma nodded, thinking of her graveyard twelve-hour shifts, her lack of free time, how tired she was most of the time. It was all something, and much better than nothing.

Neal hung around longer, that night, as he always did when he’d had a hard night at his own work. Emma thought the normality of it, the domesticity, and maybe even her company soothed him. Neal needed a lot of soothing, she thought, even though he was always so calm and so stable. No one who’d had a life like his, who lived a life like his, could be as calm about it as he pretended to be.

He was in the bathroom when the leather-clad stranger paid his check and left, and he stopped by the counter on his way out. “I’m sorry,” was all he said to her, a look of profound regret in his eyes.

“For what?” she asked his back, as he walked out without a word of explanation.

He must have gotten her confused for someone else, she thought, or have been out of his mind tired, as so many people who came through in the middle of the night were. She’d never met the man before: what could he be apologizing for?

“Hey, what was that all about?” Neal asked, when he came back. His eyes were on the door, and Emma was shaking.

“Crazy guy,” she shrugged, trying to brush it off.

“I’m sorry I left you alone,” Neal said, even though there were a few others in the diner, and Christine and Irene were just a shout away.

“Yeah,” Emma couldn’t even tell him it was nonsense, that she wasn’t a child needing protecting. For some reason the stranger’s words had shaken her to the core, and when Neal came around to hug her when he left she clung to him.

She stopped by his place after work, and he let her with a concerned look. She couldn’t explain why she felt so shaken, so scared, but when they went to bed that morning it was more intense, deeper and somehow sadder than it had ever been.

Like a goodbye.

But why would they need to say goodbye? They’d only just found each other.

“I love you,” she told him, in that early morning sunlight, and this time she knew he’d heard it. He nodded, like he’d known all along. Perhaps he had.

“I love you too,” he said, and kissed her, and everything was okay again. It had to be: what could be wrong?

\---

News of the fire came on the radio at three in the morning.

Emma had known something was wrong when he didn’t come in at his normal time, but he’d been late or absent before because of work or the guys and she didn’t let it bother her. She usually got off at 5am and checked her cell and found a message from him, apologizing and promising to come see her the next day. It was never a big deal.

But the love song on the radio ended, and it crackled as the station switched to breaking news. A coffee shop in Albany had caught fire, and the apartment block above it, and it didn’t sound accidental. Firefighters were still working on containing the blaze: two had already perished trying to save those trapped inside.

When she heard that, Emma’s heart stopped. Because she knew Neal, knew how brave he could be and how selfless, and he wasn’t like some of the other guys who had wives and children: he’d put himself on the line to save someone else’s family in a heartbeat.

Emma loved that about him. Now it made her stomach sick and her heart pound, and her hands were claws against the edge of the counter, slick with cold sweat and trembling.

“Emma, honey?” Christine’s hand touched Emma’s shoulder, and Emma nearly jumped out of her skin. “You wanna go check your phone? Irene’ll understand.”

“Yeah,” Emma nodded, clinging to that hope, “Yeah thanks.” She bolted into the back, up the stairs and into the little cloakroom, rummaging helplessly for her denim jacket and the phone in the front pocket.

She flipped it open, and turned it on.

No new messages.

“Fuck,” she muttered, and turned it off, and turned it back on again. Still nothing. “Come on, Neal, please,” she murmured, “Oh god please call, please…”

She broke every diner rule and shoved it in her apron pocket, so she’d feel it if anything came through.

Work was impossible with her heart pounding and her stomach in knots. She had to run to the back at 4am to be sick, since her phone still hadn’t rung and the radio kept bringing in more and more news of the fire that had now claimed three more lives, and continued to rage. There was no point in calling Neal, she knew: if he had access to his phone, he’d have called her.

But there was nothing, and by the time her shift ended Emma was reduced to curling in the back room under her coat, shivering and trying not to vomit again.

She’d known something was wrong, and now the world had ended and there was nothing she could do.

She tried to call him the moment her shift was over, hoping against hope that he’d been on call in a different area, or was helping survivors, anything at all. It rang and rang, but there was no answer.

“Chris, can I borrow your car?” she begged, the moment her friend appeared. Christine gave her a worried look.

“You shouldn’t be driving in your state, Em,” she said, worriedly.

“I have to get out there, Chris, please,” Emma was close to crying again, and all she needed was to see Neal again, just one more time, just to know he was okay. She needed it more than she needed to breathe. “Please.”

“I’ll drive,” Christine decided, “Come on, we’ll go check on your boy.”

Emma nodded, biting hard on her bottom lip to keep herself from screaming, as Christine took her hand and got her into the car. She barely registered the drive into the city, clutching her phone so hard it was a wonder the cheap plastic didn’t crack, desperate for it just to ring, for Neal to be on the other end, for anything at all that would end the panic spiraling through her mind.

They couldn’t get past a police barricade; Christine rolled down a window. “No, officer, you don’t understand!” Emma heard her plead, “My friend’s boyfriend is a fireman, she needs to talk to him!”

“I’m sorry, miss,” the cop said, “No one past this point but emergency personnel.”

“She’s going to die unless she knows he’s okay,” Christine said, and Emma believed it in that moment: she certainly felt like she was dying. “Please.”

“Pull off the road and wait,” the officer said, finally. “We’ll radio in for news. Maybe we can get eyes on him, what’s his name?”

Emma looked up, eyes wide and desperate, “Neal Cassidy,” she said, through cracked lips. “His name is Neal Cassidy.”

“Right,” the cop nodded, scribbling it down. “Thanks, miss, we’ll do our best.”

Christine thanked him, and pulled off the road into a little parking lot by a Starbucks. “Hey, it’s open, you want anything?”

“Fuck no,” Emma murmured, still staring at her phone, a sense of utter hopelessness washing over her. She’d have heard by now, wouldn’t she? If something had happened? Or would they be too busy saving others to contact a fireman’s girlfriend, who probably wasn’t even on their lists of emergency contacts? Fred or Dennis would know to call her, but what if…

 _What if, what if, what if_? Emma thought she was going insane.

Her phone buzzed half an hour later, as Christine had broken and gone inside for coffee and a muffin. Emma scrambled to answer, her heart in her throat, “Neal?”

“No, Emma,” Fred’s voice came through, and Emma’s whole body froze at the tone of his voice, “It’s Fred.”

“Oh, hey,” she said, trying to sound calm, “How’re you guys doing? Can I talk to Neal?”

“We’re not doing great, I… Emma are you sitting down?”

Emma thought she might pass out. “Yes.”

“Neal… he was the first one into the blaze. He got three kids out, but- a beam fell. It trapped him inside.”

“Oh… oh god…”

“I’m so sorry, Emma, we… we found his equipment.”

Emma gave a little cry, and threw the phone away.

She ought to start sobbing, she thought, but she couldn’t: no tears would come. It was like she had finally passed crying and gone straight into grief, into a catatonic kind of calm, and she got out of the car and didn’t bother to shut the door. There was a bit of woodland off away from the road, before the city truly began. Emma started to walk.

Neal liked trees, she thought: he’d want her to find someplace remote, peace and quiet, _you, Emma, are more in need of a forest than anyone I’ve ever seen._

Christine was calling her name behind her as she breached the first line of trees, and must have abandoned her coffee to run aftter her, and catch her by her arms. “Emma what the fuck?”

“Fred called,” Emma said, numbly. “Neal didn’t make it.”

“Oh, God, fuck, Emma, I’m so sorry,” Christine’s platitudes were a dull hum in Emma’s ears. She wondered if she sat by the roadside long enough, she could go back to where she’d started eighteen years ago and begin again. Because he was dead, and she didn’t think anyone would ever know how she felt right then: that Neal was dead, and so went the only person she’d ever loved, and who had ever loved her.

She didn’t know what happened then, between Christine hauling her back to the car and waking up in her bed the next day.

She didn’t know how she woke up, but she did. Then she rolled over and went back to sleep. In her dreams, Neal was by the river, and he was smiling and making them coffee on the travel stove, and everything was okay.

There were no flames, no smoke, and no one was dead.

So Emma went back to sleep.

Christine still had to work, but when she did Fred and Dennis stopped by now and again, and Irene came by often with food, trying to rouse Emma and make her eat something. Emma had the vague sense that someone cared about her, that she had people, but she didn’t focus on it. She’d done that on the second day, and remembered Neal, and been so tired she wondered if he’d come by and see her too.

Then she remembered why people had to come by, why she was in bed, why everything seemed to hurt and people kept saying sorry, and the world ended again.

Neal was dead, and Emma wondered if he’d taken a part of her with him.

“Emma you have to get out of bed,” Irene’s motherly concern stopped after about two weeks, and Emma looked at her tiredly.

“I don’t know how,” she admitted, bluntly. “And I don’t want to.”

“Well I don’t want to keep paying you for hours you don’t work,” Irene countered, just as bluntly, just as harshly. “I’m sorry, Emma, I know you’re hurting. I know you loved this boy and I know he’s gone. But you have to get out of bed now. It’s time to start living again.”

“How?”

“Get up, put some clothes on, and come into work tonight,” she said, simply. “Those firemen want to talk about a funeral-“

Emma collapsed again. It took two more days for Irene to breach the subject again.

“Come into work tonight or you’re fired,” she said, and that got through.

Emma had no make-up on, her sweater had holes in it and her jeans were comfy at best, but she was in the diner at five pm that night, and Christine hugged her before she helped tie off her apron.

Emma tried to cling to the numbness that had settled into her, but every glance at the stool Neal had favored, at the door he should have walked through at that moment, at anything he had touched or laughed at or helped her to fix, made her chest ache and her head spin. She couldn’t cope with this, she’d used her lifetime allowance of strength up before she ever met him, and now it seemed impossible to even breathe knowing he didn’t anymore.

Around midnight Irene sighed and told her it was quiet, she could have the night off. Emma thanked her, Christine gave her a worried look, and she went home.

She wanted to crawl back into her bed and sleep for years, but it didn’t feel like an option anymore. She’d hoped that, someday, she’d be able to go back to Irene’s and pick her life back up, but the thought of setting foot back there, of living the life which would always have a Neal-shaped hole in it, felt impossible, unthinkable.

There was a newspaper on the table, the New York Times, delivered that morning, with a smudge of Christine’s nail varnish on the corner where the other woman must have painted her nails as she read the headlines. The fire was long enough ago now to be out of the daily prints, and Neal’s obituary was sitting on Emma’s bedside table, where Fred had gently left it and backed away from the wreckage under the covers. It was safe, and it was almost a relief, like ripping off a bandaid, to embrace the space outside Irene’s, a place where Neal’s death didn’t rip a hole in the world and swallow everything.

People were still being born, having sex scandals, voting for shithead politicians, causing pile-ups on the freeway. Things were still happening as they always had, and Emma took a deep breath, and tried to gulp down as much of that untainted air as she could draw into her lungs.

She found herself flipping to the back, to the want ads. Most of them were in New York City, but there were some statewide or further jobs listed as well. Jobs that’d take her away from this place, off to somewhere where every second might not ache.

She’d always miss him, always _love_ him, more than anything. But there was one thing no one had to tell her, even though everyone did: Neal wouldn’t have wanted her to break down like this.

She circled a few of the more promising options, and started wondering – for the first time since before their trip to the lake – how much money she had in the account Christine helped her set up. Enough for a car, she reckoned, and maybe even rent someplace else if she could get a job.

Emma’s dreams, the things that had soothed her and kept her going, had always been of running away. She’d let herself get settled here, find someone – a whole group of people – who had stopped her and held her still, and she’d paid for it. She was supposed to keep running, moving around from place to place. She wasn’t meant to have connections to people, a family waiting for her: if she should have learned anything by now, it was that.

\---

Christine didn’t cry the day Emma moved out, her things all packed up in the back of the ancient yellow VW bug she’d bought on the cheap, her apron in her backpack. Irene hugged her, as did the other wait staff, and Fred and Dennis showed up in their black suits, smiling those helpless, useless, consoling smiles.

It was the day of the funeral, funnily enough. Emma was going from the diner to the church and then immediately down to Florida, where Irene had found her a place waiting on in a hotel her cousin ran in Tallahassee. It was only temporary – Emma had started to feverishly plan how to get her diploma, maybe even go to college, anything new that would distract from the past – but it got her out of Albany. And right now, Emma needed to be anywhere but here.

In Florida she wouldn’t let there be any boys with sweet brown eyes and comforting arms. She wouldn’t make any friends she couldn’t bear to lose: she’d grow up, get strong, and not let this happen again.

She vowed to never again spend two weeks in bed sobbing over someone who was gone. She’d never let herself get knocked down again.

Christine had said it sounded like a shit kind of life, and made her promise to call when she got to Tampa. Emma privately promised to throw her phone in the sea, and get a new one, with a new number. No more connections. No more goodbyes.

She’d not gotten to say a real goodbye to Neal, after all.

The funeral was packed with people she didn’t know. Neal had no family, after all, so it was all firefighters, a few of their families and friends who had known him, and the people he had rescued in the building where he’d lost his life.

Emma couldn’t look at them, in particular. She was a terrible person, she knew it, but their condolences made her sick: why did they get to call him a hero, get to be here, breathing, when there wasn’t even enough left of Neal to put in a casket?

She resented them, and it made her hate herself, but it was how it was.

Emma stared straight ahead throughout, and wondered what Neal would say to all of this. She could almost feel him standing beside her, hear his voice clear as day “ _what’re they so sad about? It’s just an empty wooden box! Lets go get some pie, huh? This is boring._ ”

“You’re dead,” she whispered, through dry lips, but she was still starting to smile because even her fucked-up brain’s hallucinated-Neal was better than no Neal at all.

“ _Yeah, well, shit happens. You still need pie. And some peace and quiet. You know how you get when you get hungry and stressed, babe._ ”

Emma squeezed her eyes shut, and pretended she wasn’t going mad. Sooner or later, the voice vanished and the weird sense of Neal’s presence with it. People kept giving her their best, telling her how sorry they were, what a loss, what a waste.

No one had known him like she did. She thanked them, and hoped they’d go away.

She got in the car as soon as the funeral was over. She pulled out onto the freeway behind some asshole on a motorbike who was loitering, still watching the congregation move away.

“Hey, buddy!” she screamed out the window, “You wanna move?”

The biker turned around, and with a bolt of surprise she recognized the stranger from the diner, the crazy guy who’d oddly been the first person to give her condolences, before Neal was even gone.

It was just a moment, but she could have sworn he looked guilty.

But she was an emotional mess and she’d just been hallucinating, after all, so she didn’t say anything more. She just glared at him, as he got on his stupid motorbike and drove away.

She bought herself a slice of pecan pie on her way through Albany. She ate it on the town line, perched on the hood of her car, and then – only then, only once more, the last time – she said goodbye to Neal.

\---

The stick turned blue, and Emma seriously considered throwing herself off the balcony.

Only for a moment, before she realized her balcony door was still jammed and she was only on the first floor anyway, but still. She was pregnant. She knew who the father was. And Florida was suddenly an awful lot less warm and sunny.

She instantly dismissed the idea of keeping it. She was only just finding her footing in Tallahassee, rooming with another girl who was nice, if a little quiet, in a shitty little apartment with a very slim view of the beach. She didn’t have the money, or the time – twelve-hour shifts were a bitch, even if the pay was better than it’d been in Albany – or the space for a baby. Even if having a child with Neal’s smile and her eyes would have been a perfect dream, it wasn’t meant to be. If it had been, Neal would have been there to see it.

He would have been there to find them a new place, to joke about how their child would have a permanent tan while Emma’s own skin refused to do anything but burn. He would have run out at three in the morning to buy her pickles and ice cream because her cravings had gotten weird, and she enjoyed messing with him, just a little bit. They would have taken road trips to the nicer beaches down in the south, and lain on the sand, and she’d have said she looked like a whale and he’d have kissed her, and called her beautiful.

As it was, Emma couldn’t get past the image of a baby with his curly brown hair, and her blue eyes, and the incorrigible smile, the caring sweetness, that she had fallen so deeply in love with. She didn’t change a thing about her life, save for taking her maternity leave near the due date: this baby and her had nine months together, and then she’d say goodbye again.

Because Emma didn’t get attached to people: when she did, they left her.

Neal didn’t mean to, and maybe, just maybe, neither did her parents. But they’d all gone one way or the other, and if Emma kept her child…

She couldn’t stand another loss, quick and brutal and out of the blue.

She never worked nights, now, and the restaurant served only the kind of cheap and cheerful Southern food that the tourists wanted, and that went well with a sugary cocktail. No one ate pecan pie, or lamented the coffee at three am. There were no firefighters, no too-clever waitresses, no friends, no ties.

Just Emma, the beach, the sun, and now this baby, who would be gone soon anyhow.

It was better this way, she reasoned. Sometimes she even believed it.

And if the day she gave birth, she denied even holding the child she’d carried for nine months, well then, that was only sensible. For to look into Neal’s eyes or his smile or even just to know that it was half of him she held, would be to tell her newborn son how much she loved him, and to want to hold him forever more.

And the last time she’d held someone, loved them, and let them know, they had been take away from her not twenty four hours later.

So she told the doctors to take her son away – no, not her son, some other woman’s son, Emma just carried him, just spent a little time with him, just for a little while – and when she cried, she told herself it was because every inch of her hurt from the labor.

“You should be here,” she whimpered, because no one could hear her, and no one cared, so what harm did it do, talking to dead people? “For the love of God, Neal, you should be here.”

But there was, of course, no response, no ghost, no sudden shiver of recognition; just a peeling tile ceiling, the clingy warmth of the Florida climate, and the fizzing of a busted light bulb.

Emma had been alone all her life, but it took that moment for her to know that she always would be.


End file.
